


like a palmful of air

by carafin



Series: Pathways [3]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Pre-Slash, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 12:06:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4786694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carafin/pseuds/carafin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shirabu, on being, and becoming.</p><blockquote>
  <p>No, Shirabu’s fondest memory of Ushijima is this: a lone figure, jogging on the asphalt, cutting across the field outside Shiratorizawa’s main campus on a chilly winter morning, even while the entire city is still deep in slumber. Or this: Shirabu heads back to the volleyball courts at ten p.m. to retrieve a file he’s left there during practice, only to see a single person standing in the middle of the polished wooden walls, sending ball after ball into the air doggedly, slamming each of them down with such ferocity that each impact against the wall leaves a dull hum in its wake. Or, maybe this: Ushijima, sitting by himself on a bench in the locker room, slowly unwinding the dirt-stained athletic tape from his fingers and palms, painstaking strip by painstaking strip.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	like a palmful of air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renaissance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/gifts).



> please note that **this fic is not written in chronological order**. the fic actually starts at 1 and ends at 7, but i felt like the story wanted itself to be told in this particular order, even if it might be somewhat messy and bizarre. apologies if this confuses anybody; you can always opt to read it from 1 to 7 if youre a stickler for chronologically... intact... stuff...
> 
> to the shock of exactly zero people, i would like to start this fic off by wishing isy a very happy belated birthday, and also by apologising for the lateness of this gift :"-D
> 
> hello isy, thank you so much for being such a wonderful friend, even and especially a few months ago when i was still a noob bumbling my way cluelessly around the hq fandom... good times, man. here's to more o/

_"I would like to follow_  
_you up the long stairway_  
_again & become_  
_the boat that would row you back_  
_carefully, a flame_  
_in two cupped hands_  
_to where your body lies_  
_beside me, and you enter_  
_it as easily as breathing in._

 _I would like to be the air_  
_that inhabits you for a moment_  
_only. I would like to be that unnoticed  
& that necessary.” _

**MARGARET ATWOOD, VARIATION ON THE WORD SLEEP**

 

7.

 

It becomes something of a habit, Shirabu straining his neck and tilting his head up towards the spectator’s stand before every match, scanning the crowd for the lone, familiar figure leaning against the railing. Sometimes Shirabu sees him wearing a simple shirt, his arms folded neatly in front of him. Other times, he’ll be in a crisp suit and a magenta coloured tie, looking sharp and impossibly handsome. Always, his gaze will be focused unwaveringly on the court, his expression grave and oddly intent.

Once upon a time, Shirabu would have been crushed under the weight of that sort of scrutiny; his back would have snapped under the pressure of it all.

(But that was then, and this is now.)

Across the court, the boy - Yahaba Shigeru, famously known as Oikawa Tooru’s successor -  is sizing him up, captain-to-captain, his face carefully impassive but his gaze rapt, almost bloodthirsty. Shirabu wonders then, if Oikawa is to Yahaba what Ushijima is to Shirabu. In a way, their circumstances are remarkably similar; two newly appointed captains, still struggling with the weight of their newfound responsibilities, still trying to carve their own names after the retirement of their illustrious seniors.

They’re lining up now; the captains shake hands, and then they’re walking to the middle of the court, waiting to tussle for the first ball. Shirabu lets his eyes flit over to the spectator’s stand for one last time - so quickly that nobody else can possibly notice - in search of that single, familiar figure. 

Ushijima is still standing there, silent and unmoving; already a few school girls have stopped in their tracks, admiring him gleefully from the distance. Any time now, someone is going to go up to him and ask for an autograph. For the briefest of moments, it almost feels as though Ushijima is looking down right at him, boring his eyes straight into Shirabu’s. And then, a message - it would not have been clearer if Ushijima had been standing right next to him, had leaned forward against his ears and said -  _Do me proud, Shiratorizawa’s Shirabu_.

The moment is so small, so fleeting, that it could just have been a trick of the light, a fading figment of his imagination.

Even then, Shirabu thinks, it's enough.

 

2.

 

When Shirabu goes for Shiratorizawa's volleyball club tryouts, nobody spares him a second glance. In fact, the only time Coach pays any attention to Shirabu is when he clears his throat and says, 'I'm trying out for the role of a setter' - looks at him curiously, as if to say,  _did you mean to say libero_? But Shirabu looks back at him, stoic, undaunted, and Coach doesn't say anything else before placing his club form atop the rest of the pile.

The thing is, Shirabu is self-aware enough to realise that getting into the starting line-up in a school like Shiratorizawa is a tall dream, but not so self-aware that he isn't going to try for it anyway. It's not that he's self-delusional, or anything like that; Shirabu  _knows_  that the average Shiratorizawa player is a good ten centimetres taller than him; that he is appallingly mediocre on a good day. The current main setter is at least seven centimetres taller than him, all broad shoulders and bulky muscles in a way Shirabu will never be; Ushijima stands almost at a  _hundred and ninety_  centimetres.

Shirabu knows that he can always push himself further, train even harder, gather scrapes and bruises like a collector might hoard stamps. He just does not know if that will ever be enough. Even so - he puts his name down on the sheet of paper, writes each word with pride. Shirabu Kenjirou, in neat, black print. And then, under the  _Preferred Role_  column, he runs his pen over  _Undecided_  and  _Wing Spiker_  and  _Libero_ , before circling the word  _Setter_  with a satisfying sort of finality.

It's a start.

 

3.

 

When you’re as talented and as accomplished as Ushijima, it’s only natural that you become the subject of multiple rumours. (Of course, having a  _face_ like that definitely helps, too.) The point is, by the end of his second week in Shiratorizawa, Shirabu already has it drummed in his head that Ushijima is not only the best volleyball player in their school - and possibly the entire Miyagi prefecture - but also excels in his studies, hails from a family full of eminent and important people, and possibly receives more chocolate on Valentine’s day than all the other guys in the school  _combined_.

The corollary of these rumours is this: Shirabu has never heard anyone call Ushijima friendly; people often wonder, aloud, if Ushijima is in fact capable of smiling; Ushijima may be the most well-known student in school, but he is by no means the most  _popular_. He has more followers than he has friends.

Which is why when Shirabu tries to join Ushijima’s morning run one day, half-expecting Ushijima to turn him away, he is pleasantly surprised. Ushijima takes one look at him, shrugs and says: ‘do what you want, I won’t slow down for you’, before turning away and breaking into a sprint, Shirabu following hot on his heels. He shakes Shirabu off in less than thirty seconds. By the time Shirabu clears the distance between them, Ushijima has already finished the circuit and completed three sets of planks  _and_ thirty pull-ups.

Undaunted, Shirabu joins him for morning training again the next day. If Ushijima is surprised, it doesn’t show on his face. This continues on for the next few weeks; each time, Shirabu is left looking at Ushijima figure disappearing into the horizon, lit a warm orange by the rising sun, the number one on his back slowly turning into an illegible blur.

He finally catches up with Ushijima five weeks and three days into the spartan morning regime. Unfortunately, he’s so out of breath by the end of the ten kilometres that he’s reduced to a rubbery heap on the floor, incapable of further movement. The next fifteen minutes in the volleyball court is spent thusly: Ushijima, going through his planks and push-ups and pull-ups and burpees, and Shirabu, lying spread eagle on the floor, squeezing his eyes shut and trying his best not to throw up his breakfast of full-cream milk mixed with three heaping servings of protein powder.

When Shirabu finally opens his eyes again, the volleyball court is empty. There is a can of pocari sweat next to him, the shiny metal surface still trickling with thick beads of condensation, a pool of water already working a dark, damp circle on the wooden floor. Shirabu props himself up weakly on his elbows, and looks out of the entrance of the gym, only to see the same image again: the turned back of his captain, lit golden by sunrise. The only difference is this: for some unknown, bizarre reason, Ushijima stops in his tracks for the briefest of moments, tilts his head back and gazes at Shirabu’s direction, before turning away and continuing on his path, footsteps echoing softly in his wake. 

 

 

 6.

 

The third years are gone now; their retirement heralds the end of an era for Shiratorizawa. The first and second years are skilled in their own right, but Shirabu knows that the team will be hard pressed to replace what they have lost: there can be no substitute for Oohira’s unshakeable stability and strength, nor replacement for Tendou’s clever, instinctual grasp of the court. Their greatest loss would, of course, be Ushijima, but Shirabu _doesn't_ want to think about that right now. 

‘ _I’m_ going to be Shiratorizawa’s ace,’ Goshiki tells him on the first day of practice after the handover ceremony, full of what Tendou had mockingly coined _the Zest for Life_ , disgustingly cheerful in light of Ushijima's departure and irritatingly certain in his statement.

Shirabu had told him off then. But in the days that follow, Shirabu starts to slowly - if rather begrudgingly - appreciate Goshiki's grossly inflated confidence. Somewhere along the line, Shirabu finds himself beginning to realise things about his other teammates that he'd previously glossed over in favour of Ushijima's skills: Kanwanishi’s keen and analytical mind, Goshiki’s explosive - if wildly inconsistent - strength. The rest of the first and second years don’t fare too badly either - they can’t be, not when they are members of a team as established as Shiratorizawa; when they are members of a team that had once been led by Ushijima.

(When they are members of  _Shirabu's_ team.)

They’re still a pool of untapped strength for now, but that's all right. In the future, Shirabu knows that it would be his duty to draw their potential out from them - just as he has done for Ushijima.

When it comes down to it, Shiratorizawa will be fine.

 

 

1.

 

The first time Shirabu sees Ushijima on the courts is during the first day of the Junior High Volleyball Tournament.

Watching Ushijima play, Shirabu finally learns what it means to have a  _presence_. His style is one that screams:  _look at me, don’t take your eyes away. Any moment now, I might do something remarkable._ The sight of the spinning ball making its final, attention-grabbing arc, over and across the net, leaves a thrum of expectant energy welling up underneath Shirabu's skin, makes his head hurt with a curious sort of longing. 

Ushijima’s style is simple, but it is all the more impressive for its simplicity. What use is there for petty tricks and redundant strategies when you have height and brute strength? People talk about things like combination moves and gameplay tactics all the time, marvel at Seijou's impeccable teamwork and Oikawa Tooru's uncanny knack for drawing out the strength of mediocre players, but Shirabu doesn’t think that these are things that Ushijima would ever concern himself with. Ushijima doesn’t have anything he needs to compensate for. 

'I'm gonna go to Shiratorizawa,' Shirabu says aloud, more to himself than to anyone else, and everything begins here. 

 

 

 4.

 

The thing about being part of a top-tier team is that you’ll end up getting invited to practice matches and training camps all the time. Another inevitability is that, after a while, you’re bound to come across old teammates from junior high.

‘I saw your team play against Johzenji just now,’ Kawatabi - a good friend from junior high - tells him, right before their respective teams meet at the court for a match. ‘Your whole team is fucking _sick_.’

Shirabu snorts audibly, but makes a poor attempt at concealing the pride welling in his chest. ‘You’re as vulgar as ever, Kawatabi.’

Kawatabi laughs along with Shirabu, but then his his smile clears and he’s looking at Shirabu with a strange, curious look on his face. ‘You know,’ he says, peering intently at Shirabu with furrowed brows, ‘your style’s kinda _different_ now.’

Shirabu stares back, uncomprehending.

‘I mean, you’re obviously better,’ Kawatabi says, hurriedly. ‘But like… it feels less… less like yourself than before. I know you’re playing for a new team, but your style used to be so much more… aggressive and _distinct_ , y’know?’

Deep down, Shirabu understands what Kawatabi’s driving at. He’s been doing this for a while now: slowly whittling down his own style, learning to adapt his techniques according to the demands of his teammates - of _Ushijima_. From the outside, Shirabu thinks that he can understand Kawatabi’s apprehension. After all, in the face of such raw potential, a setter’s strength might easily be dismissed as unessential. Superfluous, even. 

Before Shirabu can say anything else, Kawatabi gives him a slap on his back. 'Anyway, my coach is calling me! See you on the court, yeah?' 

Shiratorizawa proceeds to defeat the other team by a 14 point margin. When Kawatabi turns to look at Shirabu again, at the end of the match, the look of almost-pity has completely disappeared from his face; in its place is silent awe.

 _I want to be as inconspicuous as I can_ , Shirabu thinks, a mantra that will slowly define his volleyball career in Shiratorizawa; after all, just as the air around you is no less important for your obliviousness, Shirabu understands that a setter is not strong for his own strength. Other players in the team might be taller than him, might be blessed with more speed and power than he can ever hope to possess, but Shirabu also knows that what he has is quieter, more tenacious than the rest. Knows, surely, that there is more than just one way to be strong.

 

 

 5.

 

In his entire high school career, Shirabu has played exactly nine official matches alongside Ushijima. Of them, Ushijima has made a total of seventy-five service aces, and scored the final, deciding point in seven of these matches. The city’s volleyball magazine has run countless articles on Ushijima, showcased a million photos of him: Ushijima, paused in mid-flight, his hand wrapped around the ball, about to deliver yet another wicked serve; Ushijima, all taut muscles and impeccable poise, the arc of his body stretched gracefully against the whitewashed walls of the stadium; Ushijima, equal parts suave and stoic, standing in front of the team, the very picture of an undisputed champion with a long and intimate history with victory.

None of these make up Shirabu’s fondest memory of Ushijima.

No, Shirabu’s fondest memory of Ushijima is this: a lone figure, jogging on the asphalt, cutting across the field outside Shiratorizawa’s main campus on a chilly winter morning, even while the entire city is still deep in slumber. Or this: Shirabu heads back to the volleyball courts at ten p.m. to retrieve a file he’s left there during practice, only to see a single person standing in the middle of the polished wooden walls, sending ball after ball into the air doggedly, slamming each of them down with such ferocity that each impact against the wall leaves a dull hum in its wake. Or, maybe this: Ushijima, sitting by himself on a bench in the locker room, slowly unwinding the dirt-stained athletic tape from his fingers and palms, painstaking strip by painstaking strip. 

People often take Ushijima’s skills for granted; after all, a story about a natural genius, an effortless talent, always inspires greater awe than, say, gritty and boring hard work. But Shirabu knows better - no, Ushijima’s strength did not come in a single day, is not just a product of serendipitous luck and unearned talent. And so Shirabu’s favourite memory of Ushijima consists: The sound of volleyballs slamming against the wall, amidst the restless hum of a summer’s night, cicadas chirping quietly in the background. Rough, calloused palms, peeking out from dirty-white athletic tapes.

A can of Pocari sweat, the sticky sweetness of it travelling down his throat. A retreating back, a quiet glance. A boy, at sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> i live for gratuitous, obnoxious, in-your-face references to senpai's turned back come fight me


End file.
